Moments

The last couple weeks, I've wondered if Cory had lived to be twenty two, what would she be doing right now?  Who would she be?

Would she be well?  Free of voices?  Would she be taking classes?  Learning to drive?  Dating?

I'd ruminate on these impossibilities for awhile, then try to cram my mouth full of pills, and run away.  A couple of counseling appointments, and a med change later, I decided to take another path in my mind.

Instead of what did Cory not get the chance to do, what did she experience while she was here?

With this question on my lips, I rifled through photos, and came up with some statements.

Cory had fun.  I have a picture of her with her hands in the air, wearing a sweet spaghetti strapped turquoise dress to a school dance.  She had a wad of neon gum in her mouth- often captured on film that night- the whole time.  She came home breathless from dancing and laughing, cozied down on the end of my bed, and told me all about it.

Cory saw her favorite band in concert.  We saw My Chemical Romance, eighth row, and it was amazing!  She'd gotten the tickets from Bob for her fifteenth birthday.  We were so close to the stage, we nearly lost our eyebrows.  We jumped.  We screamed.  We hollered.  And we laughed that nervous screamy laughter that is so popular at slumber parties.  I have a picture of her sleeping on the hotel bed, when we got back, still dressed in her concert tee and hoodies, both hands thrown up haphazardly over her head as if the concert still went on in her dreams.  Maybe it did.

Cory saw herself clearly on the days without symptoms.  On those days, she took selfies, and preened as she reviewed them.  She'd try on an outfit, and turn around to show me her cute little tookus.  Once the Rispedal had given her a full cup size up top, there was no stopping her.  On a good day, my baby girl was rightfully full of herself, and I egged it on in any way I could.  She was beautiful, inside and out.

After Cory's death, her high school boyfriend sent me the one picture in which the two of them shared a kiss.  I have this to remember that she loved a boy.  She never had the chance to be in love with a man in a grown up relationship, but she loved a boy with all her heart, and I think that boy loved her.  I remember the way she'd walk around with stars in her eyes about two feet off the ground, and just grin nervously.  Dude, she had it bad!!

One of my favorite pictures of Cory and I is one in which she had her eyes closed, and was smiling as I kisssed her cheek.  This is the thing I said to my counselor the other day that made her stop to ask me to repeat myself, "I did everything I knew to do.  I think Cory had the best mom she could've had."

Yes, I believe that.  I do.

And finally, a snapshot Tim took at Speed's from across the table:   in typical Cory fashion, she rested her chin in her palm and cheesed it up.  She looked whole, healthy, and normal.

She looked that way because she was.  She was getting better.  And she died doing a normal thing.  That damn illness had not a thing to do with it.

How about that?

Not bad, Cory Girl.  Not bad, at all.